


Don't Stop Me Now

by feelslikefire, marchingjaybird



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Hawke Twins, M/M, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelslikefire/pseuds/feelslikefire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Isabela comes clean about having stolen the Tome of Koslun, Marian and Garrett Hawke come up with a daring plan to keep her--and the city of Kirkwall--safe. It may or may not involve spending a night with the Arishok. Their friends aren't all pleased with the deal, however--particularly a certain rebel mage, and a certain broody elf. Slight AU where Marian and Garrett are the elder Hawke twins, and all of the Hawke family (save Malcolm) has survived; also shameless excuse for Arishok porn because there's not enough of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Stop Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> This took us a billion years to get done due to RL getting in the way, but it was great fun, so hopefully it's worth it in the end. Beta'd, as always, by my darling [circ_bamboo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo), who literally just beat Act 2 of Dragon Age 2 the day before I made her beta this. 
> 
> The working title of this fic was "Champions of Jerkwall." YOU'RE WELCOME.

“You sure you don’t want to join us, Daisy? Just one shot won’t do much, I promise.”

Merrill made a face. Even her moue of distaste was cute, Varric noted. How that much cute and that many bad ideas could go together all in one package, he’d never know, but then he apparently made a habit of collecting friends who were nothing _but_ bad ideas. “You know I don’t really like drinking,” she said doubtfully.

“Yes, but this is a special occasion,” said Isabela, which Varric thought was a hell of an understatement. 

“Even by Kirkwall standards,” Fenris said. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, the closest he came to a smile when one of the elder Hawke twins wasn’t around. He turned to the barmaid standing expectantly at the edge of the table. “A round of whiskey for the table, please.”

“If you can call it whiskey,” said Carver darkly. He’d left the Templar regalia at his room in the Gallows for tonight, for which Varric was grateful, since they really didn’t need to draw any extra attention at the moment. 

They already had all the trouble they could handle. 

The mood around the table was brittle, even with everyone but Merrill at least two drinks in and what should have been a solid card game going. Varric looked down at his hand, fanned the cards and snapped them together again. It was a good hand. Shame to waste it.

The barmaid returned with the tray and everyone took their glasses. Merrill tipped hers back and forth, eyeing the amber liquid as though it might jump out and bite her nose. “Don’t look at it like that, Daisy,” Varric chided. “You’ll hurt its feelings.”

Merrill smiled a little, laughed that little perplexed laugh like she wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or not. Isabela nudged her shoulder, encouraging. She was more charming than ever tonight, and Varric was not fooled. He did it himself on occasion: turn up the dazzle to hide the darkness beneath. It was there, if you knew where to look. A little pinch around the lips, dark circles under the eyes. Isabela was not having a good night.

“Go on then, my darling,” she cried, tapping Merrill on the elbow. “Bottoms up! Don’t make us drink alone!”

Merrill had the glass halfway to her lips when they heard footsteps in the hallway outside. The sudden silence was thicker than Carver’s skull.

 _Andraste’s dimpled butt-cheeks,_ Varric thought to himself. There was a few moments of gut-wrenching anxiety where he wondered if he should just toss back the whiskey and dive for Bianca, and then two people appeared in the door.

“Maker’s breath, how’d you convince Merrill to have a drink?” said Marian Hawke. “Someone send a message to the Divine, we need to declare a new holiday.” She sauntered into the room first, her twin brother Garrett right behind her. Both of them were wearing an identical shit-eating grin, one that everyone at the table knew all too well. 

“Why are you both smiling like that?” said Varric. “Should we be worried?”

“You should definitely be worried,” said Fenris. 

“I’m worried,” Carver said. Merrill put her shot glass down on the table, trying and failing not to look relieved, however temporary her reprieve. 

“Oh ye of little faith,” said Garrett. “To think you call yourselves our friends!” He paused at the head of the table, pressing his hand to his heart and adopting a wounded expression; Varric half-expected Garrett’s lower lip to start quivering. He suppressed a snort, but the smile got away from him, as it always did when one of the elder Hawke twins was concerned. 

“Alright, alright, enough!” Isabela burst out. She leaned forward, planting both hands on the table and glaring impatiently from Marian to Garrett. “What happened? What did he _say?_ ”

“Well…” Marian and Garrett exchanged a glance, then began to speak rapidly, trading sentences back and forth like children playing with a ball. No matter how many times he saw it, Varric couldn’t figure out how they did it.

“...it wasn’t looking good, of course—”

“—he’s quite angry still about having to stay in Kirkwall—”

“—but we did manage to convince him that killing Isabela—”

“—wasn’t going to solve anything, and furthermore—”

“—it would be a waste of his time—”

“—but he did insist on further compensation, I’m afraid—”

“—so the long and short of it is—”

And here they paused again, communicating silently while Isabela slumped face first onto the table and began muttering drunken prayers of thanks. Garrett glanced at Varric, Marian at Carver—although, did her eye wander? yes, maybe just a little, to check the reaction of a certain sullen elf—and then Garrett plowed ahead.

“Well, we’re going to spend a night each with him,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and grinning sheepishly. Isabela’s head came up so fast Varric was sure she would topple backwards out of her chair.

“One tomorrow, one the next night,” Marian added, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She reached out and casually swiped Merrill’s whiskey. Merrill didn’t seem to notice. She, like the rest of them, was staring in horror at the pair of them.

Predictably, Isabela was the first to recover her wits. “You’re shitting me,” she said. “You’re—what, sleeping with the Arishok? _Both_ of you?”

“You have absolutely no room to give us a hard time about that,” said Garrett, and Marian _mmm-hmmed_ as she tossed back Merrill’s whiskey. This happened to be true—Isabela had won a night of drinking on Varric’s tab by being the first man or woman he knew personally to sleep with _both_ of the elder Hawke twins. She swore up and down that she’d had them in her bed at the same time, but as neither Marian nor Garrett had ever deigned to confirm or deny this, no one knew if it was actually true. 

“Hello, have we met?” demanded Isabela. “I’m not berating you, I’m impressed! And jealous. Maker, to be a fly on that wall…” 

“You are not helping, Rivaini,” Varric said. He glanced at Carver and noted the dull red that was creeping up the boy’s ears. 

“Garrett and Marian are doing just fine on their own,” said Fenris, little better than a growl. “You can’t possibly be serious! How does this satisfy the demands of the Qun?” He was staring at the two of them with a mixture of irritation and dismay, one that might normally be reserved for blood mages and tax collectors. Then again, that could just be his face. 

“That does sound pretty dangerous,” Merrill ventured. 

“It sounds insane,” Carver snapped. “Fenris is right, you can’t really be meaning to do this!”

“Oh, we mean to do it all right,” Garrett said, grinning. The barmaid materialized, setting down whiskey in front of each of the twins. “Be a love and bring me another, my sister is unfairly ahead of me.” The two of them sat there, cocksure, with their dark hair and their merry eyes, clearly enjoying the reactions they were eliciting from their friends. Varric felt almost sad to be interrupting their fun.

“Far be it for me to counsel prudence,” he said, steepling his fingers, “but do you two really think that’s wise? The Arishok could very well be laying a trap for you, and it could be one you don’t walk away from, if you catch my meaning.”

Marian smiled fondly at him, quick fingers swiping Garrett’s second whiskey right in front of him. “If so, he’ll only catch one of us,” she said.

“Cheeky,” said Isabela. Her expression flickered between profound relief and concern for her friends. She knew too well the dangers of playing fast and loose with the Qunari. “Varric is right, though. Be careful.”

“Please,” said Garrett. Butter wouldn’t have melted on his tongue. “When are we not careful?”

“I hope the Arishok isn’t too careful,” added Marian in a tone of unmistakable glee. “Hey, Bela, you think there’s any correlation to horn-size and—”

“Right,” said Carver shortly. He stood up from the table and bent to grab his rucksack, his movements rough and jerky. “That’s about all I need to hear, thanks _so_ much for reminding me exactly how disgusting and shallow the two of you can be.” He shouldered his bag and stalked towards the door, whiskey still untouched in its shot glass on the table. “Maybe Aveline will be able to talk some sense into the two of you, but I’m done trying.”

Garrett turned himself around in his chair to watch his brother go, lip curled ever so slightly. 

“Has your brother always been such a little killjoy, or have the templars been showing him how to store better and larger sticks in his arse?” Isabela asked. She beat Marian to Carver’s abandoned whiskey, waggling her eyebrows suggestively before knocking it back.

“No, he was always like that,” said Merrill, though the question was largely rhetorical. “You know, I’ve always thought it was strange that he gets on so much better with Bethany than with you two, when he’s a templar and she’s the only mage amongst you.”

“That’s because Carver actually thinks about the consequences of his actions, something the two of you would do well to emulate a little more often.” Fenris stood as well, pausing just long enough to throw back his own shot of whiskey before bringing the glass down hard on the table top. Varric raised his eyebrows. Even by Fenris’s standards, the glower he now wore was impressive. 

Once more, Garrett touched a big hand to the center of his chest, his face screwing up in a mockery of hurt. “Fenris!” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’re also judging our life choices. I thought that was only for Carver and Aveline!”

“I judge your foolishness,” said Fenris. His voice had gone cold and queerly flat, a sure sign that he had been pushed almost to the point of blind rage. Varric started to wonder what on earth had crawled up the elf’s ass and died, but Marian’s tight, dangerous smile answered the question before he had time to ask it. “The Qunari are not to be trifled with, least of all the Arishok.”

“He seemed pretty amenable to the arrangement,” said Marian. She was still the very picture of calm. Varric watched her closely, observed the way her eyes slid away from Fenris’ cold gaze. The way she told it, they had both agreed it was best not to dwell on their little fling but it was clear enough that there was still too much left unsaid between the two of them.

“I’m sure he did. I’m sure every man you’ve propositioned has been… amenable.” And he stalked out before Marian could answer, leaving in his wake an uncomfortable silence.

“Ooh, look!” Merrill exclaimed. “More whiskey! Let’s everyone drink more whiskey!” She looked desperately at Varric, but it was too late.

“Did he just call you a whore?” Garrett demanded, half in anger and half in barely contained mirth.

“I think he did,” Marian said wonderingly. “ _And_ implied that I don’t proposition women!” She turned to Isabela for support.

“Whatever else you are, you are both of you my heroes tonight. Right! Another round of shots, on me!” Isabela stood, coming around the table to throw an arm around each of the twins’ shoulders, grinning from ear to ear as she handily defused the tension left by their departing companions. “Come on, loves, time to get you good and shit-faced.”

“You’re an angel, Bela,” Garrett said, and left a big smacking kiss on the inside of her throat. 

“A queen!” declared Marian.

“She’s something, all right,” said Varric with a long sigh. He shook his head, and reached over to rescue Merrill as she downed her first shot of the night, pushing her mug of sweet tea into her hands again as a chaser. “And lucky to have you two as friends.”

“Too right,” said Isabela, still all smiles. “And don’t think I don’t know it!” She turned back to the barmaid, who had just returned with another tray of shot glasses. Varric was already wondering how long it would be before Aveline came storming in like one of the huge typhoons they got off the Antivan coast, all sound and fury and righteous judgement. 

Better Aveline than other parties, though. Varric could think of just one other person who would be even more dismayed by the twins’ newest spot of trouble than either Fenris or Carver had been… and unless he missed his mark, that was exactly where Fenris was headed right now. 

Misery loved company, after all.

* * * * *

There was a ruckus outside, the usual Darktown disagreement over the permanence of one’s possessions. Sitting near the door as he was, Anders could hear most of the fight; it sounded more drunken than anything, two sots having a slap at each other in the hopes that one had a few coins in his pocket. Still, he cocked his head and listened. One might pull a knife and, in Anders’ experience, drunks bled like it was a contest so he would only have a short window in which to help.

The fight began to escalate, then cut off abruptly. That usually meant someone bigger or more sober or better armed had entered the picture. This time of night, on this side of Darktown, it might just mean Coterie but there was always a chance that the templars had come for him at last. Anders leaned over slightly and wrapped his fingers around his staff, trying to make as little noise as he could.

The door slammed open and Anders stood, fighting the urge to attack and be done with it. It could very well be another patient, or someone summoning him to a sickbed. People with loved ones in need were often hasty and lacked manners.

Or it could be Fenris. Anders lowered the staff in exasperation, leaning it back against the wall and going back to his tidying up. The elf stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing the clinic with an air of disdain. “What do you want?” Anders asked, at least attempting to keep his voice civil. It was no secret that he and Fenris did not care for one another, but they tried to keep it peaceful for the sake of the Hawkes.

“We have to talk.”

Anders’ lip curled. “I already told you, I’m good for what I owe you on the Diamondback game,” he said irritably. “But you have to wait till a week from Monday.” A week from Monday was when Garrett and Anders would be coming back from another trip to the Wounded Coast for—shit, he hardly knew at this point, Garrett and Marian took on so many jobs for people in Kirkwall that it was hard to keep track. Probably that oaf Hubert or something for Aveline, he thought, but either way it’d be good coin. 

“It’s not about the coin,” Fenris snapped. 

Anders looked over at him, his frown deepening. He liked Fenris about as much as he liked having to heal a nasty case of crotchrot, but usually they went out of their way to avoid each other unless in company of their other friends. “Then what the hell is your pro—”

“Isabela came back with the Tome of Koslun, and Garrett and Marian went to convince the Arishok to leave with just it and not her. Their solution was to agree to sleep with him, one night each.” 

Anders stared. For several moments, he couldn’t even speak. Then: “WHAT?”

Fenris’ lip curled; it looked almost like satisfaction, save for how grim his face was. “They think it’s great fun,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

Several things ran through Anders’ mind then. Of _course_ Garrett and Marian would think it was great fun to go crawl into the Arishok’s bed under the guise of helping a friend. Of _course_ Fenris would come tell him because Fenris was spiteful and Anders suspected that he genuinely enjoyed causing mages pain, emotional or otherwise. And, most irritating of all, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, he had absolutely no right to be angry with Garrett.

For that matter, Fenris had no right to be upset with Marian; it was no secret that the two of them had shared a bed, nor that he had walked out on her. Anders eyed him, suddenly interested. Had Fenris done the same thing he had, turning away Marian’s affection in order to protect her?

“Sit down,” he said, determined to be the reasonable one. But Fenris didn’t argue. Instead he threw himself into a chair and scrubbed at his face with both hands. He was genuinely upset! Anders couldn’t help but be intrigued. His fascination with Fenris’s emotional state was a good distraction from the sickening jealousy boiling in his own belly. “Do you want something to drink? I’m afraid all I have is cheap wine…”

“Wine will do,” Fenris said. He raised his head a little, fixing a glower on Anders that set his fingers itching for his staff. “I’m surprised at you, mage. I didn’t think you’d take this so calmly. But maybe you don’t actually care about Garrett as much as we all thought you did.”

That brought Anders up short. “You watch your fucking mouth,” he snarled, stopping halfway to his cupboard to round on Fenris. “You have absolutely no idea of how I feel, so don’t act like you do.” 

He could feel Justice stirring in the back of his mind, a pressure like an incoming storm, and tried to master himself. Now that his friend was more the dark rage of Vengeance than the burning clarity of the spirit he’d once known, Anders had to be more careful than ever. He couldn’t afford to lose control.

Fenris was still watching him, no doubt guessing at his struggle. “Far be it from me to ever want any sort of kinship with you,” he said, his mouth a bitter twist. “But the irony here is that I am the _only_ one who understands how you feel.” 

Anders glared at Fenris for another few moments, considering. He drew a deep breath, and forced himself to let it out, slowly, to a count of eight inside his head. Then he turned away again, retrieving a dusty and questionable bottle of wine from his cupboard, along with a set of mugs that were only marginally chipped. Then he returned to the table, setting wine and mugs down and dropping into the seat across from Fenris. 

He poured, using the action to collect his thoughts. It was hard, sometimes, to be orderly in his own mind, particularly when people like Fenris deliberately provoked him. He shoved a mug across the table with, perhaps, a little more force than was necessary. Fenris accepted the drink with a sardonic twist of his lips and they sipped for a moment, both of them wincing a little at the wine’s rather sour taste.

“Unpleasant,” Fenris remarked.

“You’re still drinking it,” said Anders. Fenris _hmmmed_ , downed the rest of the mug, and poured another.

“So,” said Anders, after both of them had drained and refilled their mugs a few times each. “So. What’re you going to do? Are you going to stop her?” 

Fenris looked at him, arched a pale brow. “Have _you_ ever tried to tell one of them they can’t do something?” he asked. 

Anders nodded glumly. The Hawke twins—both sets, honestly—were notoriously contrary, to the point of doing stupid, sometimes extremely dangerous things simply because they weren’t supposed to. Which, he reflected, was essentially what they were doing now.

Fenris let out a sigh almost as heavy as the lead weight that had settled in Anders’ stomach. “And even if I could… I have no right. I do not own Marian; she is her own woman. I would not want to be the sort of man who would try to control her.” 

It was weird, hearing Fenris say something that Anders didn’t immediately want to contradict or yell at him for. Anders wondered if Fenris was suffering from the same sort of cognitive dissonance, and then set the thought aside. “She might listen, if you just asked her,” he said hesitantly. 

“She might have, once,” Fenris said. Anders glanced over the table at him, but Fenris’ eyes were not on him. Anders strongly suspected that what he was seeing was not currently in this room. Then, abruptly, his gaze focused, and he stared back at Anders, his green eyes uncomfortably intense. “And what of you and Garrett? Would he listen, if you asked?”

“I doubt it,” said Anders. He was feeling a bit light-headed now and was mildly surprised to discover that the wine bottle had been thoroughly emptied. He tried to count how many glasses he’d had, realized he was counting on his fingers, and stopped before Fenris could mock him. 

“Garrett was happy enough to walk away,” he continued, rolling the mug in his (surprisingly numb) fingers. “I could ask him, but I think he would just laugh and pat me on the head like a dog and do what he wanted anyway.” He didn’t even have the claim of one sexual encounter with Garrett the way Fenris did with Marian. He’d turned Garrett away without so much as a kiss. _Stupid_ , he thought, hazy with wine and regret.

“We’re fools, the both of us.” Fenris leaned back in his chair and closed his bright eyes, a bitter little smile on his lips. “For falling in love with a Hawke.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Anders loudly. He got up from the table and made a beeline for his cupboard, intent on digging out another bottle of wine. He was only half-surprised to come back to the table and watch Fenris pluck the bottle from his fingers, opening it and pouring two more mugs of terrible wine for them. The wine was dark, darker than the previous bottle, and no doubt bitter, as most of the wine Anders could ‘afford’ was. 

At that exact moment, he was finding it hard to care.

Anders raised his mug, and after a moment Fenris did as well, clinking it against Anders. “Cheers,” they said, almost in unison, and drank.

It was going to be a rough night.

* * * * *

_Several hours earlier, elsewhere in Kirkwall…_

 

”Well, this isn’t really what I was planning to do with my evening,” Marian remarked. “Still not too late to turn back and leave the tome somewhere for the Qunari to conveniently stumble across.”

Garrett glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There’s no way that plan would go wrong,” he said. “It’s not like this city is filled with zealots willing to throw innocent people into the fire for the sake of their religion—”

“Or thieves who’d stab their own mother for a silver,” said Marian, and sighed heavily. “Damn. Well, it’s been lovely knowing you, brother of mine.”

“Likewise,” said Garrett. He paused, then added, “If they kill us, I’m going to write a note in blood next to your body before I die: ‘Garrett was born first.’”

“Piss off!” Garrett laughed as Marian elbowed him good-naturedly, but both of their gazes were focused on the dark wood doors at the top of the stairs in front of them.

They were just outside the Qunari compound, and had been standing there for a few minutes now, sizing up the situation (grim) and their chances of getting out of this with everyone’s skin intact (vanishing). It was just after sunset, and the sky to the west was a bloody red that was doing their peace of mind no favors. 

Marian might have suggested abandoning the Tome of Koslun, but both of them knew she didn’t really mean it. Garrett hadn’t even actually had to ask. Both of them felt the same: while the theft of the relic had in no way been their fault, their role as _de facto_ delegates to the Arishok and as two of Isabela’s friends meant that trying to pass the buck in this situation was at least negligent and verging on criminal. Even if they hadn’t known that the Qunari looked poorly upon those who tried to avoid the consequences of their actions, the twins would still have wanted to bring the tome to the Arishok themselves. There was some truth to that old saying, that if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourselves.

Nobody wanted to risk the consequences if this particular event was done wrong.

The red-painted Qunari at the doors opened them silently, not meeting the twins’ eyes as they walked inside. Both kept their shoulders squared, heads high, not least because there was a certain confidence to be gained from walking as though they had not a care in the world. Marian carried the tome in a pack slung over her shoulder and Garrett glanced at it periodically, as if to make sure it hadn’t vanished.

THe Arishok sat in his throne-like seat, elbows on his knees, expression unreadable, as he had so many times before. They stopped in front of him, bowed respectfully. “Anaan esaam Qun,” Marian said respectfully. 

The Arishok made a low sound in his throat that might have been amusement. “You have it then?” 

Garrett reached into the bag and produced the Tome of Koslun. It was a heavy thing, and they had decided together that Garrett should hand it off, if only because it looked less ridiculously large in his hands.

Unsure of what was expected, he took a few steps forward. The Arishok nodded once and, emboldened, Garrett mounted the steps and held the tome up. The Arishok’s thick fingers curled around it and the great weight of the thing lifted from Garrett’s hands. It was done.

The Arishok stood, gazing down at the huge book in his hands with an expression of reverence so profound that it was almost voyeuristic to behold. “Maraas toh ebra-shok, Hawke children,” he rumbled, and raised his eyes to stare at Garrett and Marian once more. The intensity in his dark eyes was unnerving. “Our relic is returned to us, and we can leave this festering cesspool of a city and return to Par Vollen.”

“Happy to be of service,” said Marian, because _does this mean I can call you ‘Daddy?’_ and _that’s MY festering cesspool_ both seemed a poor choice, even by their standards. 

The Arishok smirked, honest to God _smirked_. Beside her, Garrett shifted, palming his belt-buckle in a gesture that most would read as idle but Marian knew for a fact was the closest her brother got to a nervous tic. Well, at least she wasn’t the only one affected. 

The Arishok’s next comment took all the wind out of her sails, however. “You have done much for the Qun, basalit-an, but there is still the matter of punishment for the thief,” he said. “You will bring her here, and she will submit to the Qun.”

“Say what now?” said Garrett, alarmed.

“She is basra vashedan, a wretch who stole what which was most sacred to us for coin and personal gain,” said the Arishok. His grip tightened on the Tome of Koslun, voice sharpening with contempt. “She is not worthy of your protection or respect.”

“Well… no,” Garrett said, surprised into speech. He glanced over his shoulder at Marian and she widened her eyes at him in a very familiar gesture of _I don’t know, figure it out yourself_. He turned back to the Arishok, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t suppose anyone we know is necessarily worthy of protection or respect.”

“Maybe Aveline,” Marian chimed in.

“Definitely Aveline,” said Garrett. “But no, probably not Isabela. However she’s our _friend_ , is the thing. And we’d quite like to keep her in one piece.”

“Could we perhaps persuade you to spare her?” asked Marian. “Surely there is something we can offer you…” 

The Arishok turned and passed the tome to one of the Qunari guards standing close by; the guard bowed low and turned away, bearing the object deeper into the compound and out of sight. “I will not spare her,” the Arishok said darkly as he turned back to the twins, “not even for the only worthy humans in this entire sordid city.” The storm gathering in his face hinted at being more terrible than the one that had wrecked the Qunari dreadnought three years before. “A crime most vile has been committed against the Qun, and I cannot let such an insult go unpunished.”

Garrett and Marian winced, subtle and almost in unison. “Then punish us,” said Garrett. 

“As you said, she’s not worthy of your time or attention,” Marian pointed out. The Arishok’s brow furrowed.

“She’s under our protection and we take responsibility for her actions,” Garrett said, nodding as he glanced at his sister and saw the same grim determination in her eyes as he was feeling. 

The Arishok was silent for several moments, his arms crossed over his massive chest, considering them. Neither Garrett nor Marian spoke; they dared not even draw a breath. Finally, the Arishok shifted, head tilting ever so slightly. “That is unacceptable,” he rumbled. “You truly are but children, to so willfully throw yourself on the sword for such trash.”

Even as Garrett’s heart sank, he noted that there was something that sounded like respect in the Arishok’s voice. This time it was Marian who moved to respond, taking a step forward up the stairs towards the Qunari general. Her slim form seemed even more diminutive compared to the Arishok’s, and Garrett had to stifle the idiotic urge to grab her and run like hell. She wouldn’t thank him for it, and it wouldn’t help their situation. 

“We can’t give her to you any more than you could leave without the Tome,” Marian said. “But if you truly think that we are worthy, then let us repay her debt to you.”

Garrett stepped forward to stand alongside her. “We will do whatever you ask,” he added, trying to sound confident and not desperate. “There must be some service we can offer to the Qun.”

There was a deep silence, so profound that Marian was sure her brother had managed to somehow deeply offend the Arishok. Something brushed her fingers and she jumped a little, adrenaline shooting through her body. It was only Garrett’s hand, reaching out for hers as they’d done so often as children. She folded her fingers around it and he squeezed her tight.

Finally, the Arishok spoke. “There is no service that you can offer the Qun,” he said, regarding them without expression. “But your offer is noble and I honor your intentions.” He sat back, rolling his great shoulders, and Garrett wondered what it would feel like to be hit by those massive arms. Rather like being kicked in the chest by an angry horse, he imagined.

“I will grant your thief mercy,” the Arishok said finally, and they both let out breaths that they hadn’t realized they were holding. “And in return, you _will_ perform a service, but you will perform it for me.”

They both went stiff at the same time, hands twining even more tightly. Neither of them much cared for the sound of that, but Garrett tried to rationalize it away. The Arishok was not some crude opportunist in a back alley; if he was offering them a chance to make good the damage that Isabela had done, they could at least be sure of walking away more or less intact. 

“What service?” Marian asked, cautious. 

The Arishok regarded them intently. “For harboring a known fugitive, the will of the Qun would be to demand a fight from you. But since you have willingly come to me and asked to submit in the place of the thief, I will accept your surrender in another manner.”

To her surprise, the Arishok smiled. It was not a nice smile; it had a feral edge to it, enough to send a shiver down her spine. But neither was it without humor, and some faint trace of warmth was in his words when he continued, “Is there not a bas saying… how does it go? ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’”

Beside her, Garrett let out a startled laugh. “That’s the one,” he said.

“Words to live by,” agreed Marian, and tried not to dwell on how the Arishok kept saying the word _submit._

If the Arishok had smiled, it was gone now. “You will come to me, alone, each of you,” he said. “You will make good on your offer to submit to me, and I will come to know you as a warrior knows the rival he fights to the death.”

“Do you mean…?” Garrett stared, turned to Marian, stared some more. “Does he mean…?”

“Respectfully,” Marian said, squeezing his hand warningly. “What does the Arishok mean by _submit_?”

The Arishok’s voice was impassive as he stood, looming over the two of them. They had spoken to him many times, seen his wrath, but there was something terrifying about him now, something wholly foreign. He had never seemed bigger or stranger to them than he did at that moment. “You know well what it means, little Hawke,” he rumbled. “I will see the first of you tomorrow, at this hour.”

He turned away, dismissing them, and they left as quickly as they could without seeming to hurry, only realizing once they were outside the gates that they were still holding hands. Marian shrugged her twin off as he made sad dog-like noises of protest.

“Stop it,” she snapped, pacing across the street and settling in a recessed doorway. Garrett joined her, armor clanking as he lowered himself heavily to the ground. They sat for a long time like that, Marian with her brow furrowed and her chin cupped in her hands, Garrett staring blankly at the wall across from them. Finally, he broke the silence.

“He’s going to fuck us, isn’t he?” he demanded. Marian burst out laughing. Garrett glowered at her, but the effect was mostly lost. 

“Better us than whatever he’d do to Isabela,” she said, when she’d collected herself enough to respond. “This is what we get for making that bet about who would bed a Qunari first, isn’t it?”

Garrett grinned at her ruefully. “I suppose it is,” he said. “Shall we arm-wrestle for who is going to win that bet?”

“Cheeky! Marian snuck a hand over to pinch him at the spot where his chest piece met his midsection. He yelped and swatted at her hand. “Coin-toss is the only fair way to settle it.”

“Not any coin of yours,” he shot back, and snorted as she huffed and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a mockery of outrage. “Well, whatever. We should get back, tell the others what happened.”

Marian’s mirth and faux-insult subsided, her expression smoothing over into something more serious like a cloud passing over the sun. “They’re just going to love this, aren’t they.” 

“Pretty sure only Isabela will actually be as impressed as this deserves,” Garrett said, and sighed. “Can’t be helped.”

Marian tried to resist, she really did. But the opening was too good to pass up. “Your arsehole can’t be helped, after the Arishok is done with you,” she said, and attempted unsuccessfully to dodge as Garrett’s elbow dug into her ribs. “Ow! Armor!”

“You deserved it,” Garrett said, his grin widening despite himself. “And you’re one to talk, you’re half my size! He’s going to break you in half!”

“I’m going to climb him like a tree, you mean—”

“Pretty sure ‘submit’ doesn’t mean what you think it means, there.”

“Oh, well, there are worse ways to die,” said Marian cheerfully, and Garrett choked.


End file.
